


Flower-gathering

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Surreal, awkward hand kissing, canonverse, obnoxious flower metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco is gathering flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower-gathering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theisles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisles/gifts).



> For [Dylo](http://dylosketchesstuff.tumblr.com/) whose [incredibly beautiful Marco fanart](http://mjolklizardart.tumblr.com/post/119250411523/mjolklizard-this-is-the-full-version-of-this-i) inspired this fic.
> 
> Thank you so much to TheChosenChu who made a [lovely drawing](https://twitter.com/TheChosenChu/status/557249167626473472) inspired by this piece! <3

_I left you in the morning,  
And in the morning glow,  
You walked a way beside me  
To make me sad to go.  
Do you know me in the gloaming,  
Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming?  
Are you dumb because you know me not,  
Or dumb because you know?_

_All for me? And not a question  
For the faded flowers gay  
That could take me from beside you  
For the ages of a day?  
They are yours, and be the measure  
Of their worth for you to treasure,  
The measure of the little while  
That I’ve been long away._

—"Flower-gathering” by Robert Frost

Jean starts by drawing dandelions. They’re very common, but surprisingly complicated to put down on paper. He does it on evenings when there’s still light in the summer, just after dinner and before bed—the only free time in their day at the start of training.

It’s a secret hobby that not even his family knows about. He doesn’t consider himself an artist exactly, but he enjoys doing it, so he indulges himself. Of course, he’d deny it to anyone else until he’s blue in the face. He sticks to safe things, like nature studies, because they’re easy and plants don’t move a lot. 

Dandelions seem like the simplest at first. They’re a single color, have hardly leaves, and the petals are really just bushy, yellow heads that look more like weeds than flowers. However, the more Jean tries to get one down on paper the right way, the more he fails. In fact, his first version looks better than what is now his second week trying.

He’s taken to sitting on a nearby hill that slopes down to camp, and he watches the sky as the summer sun slowly sinks behind the distant trees. There are some cadets loitering around the bunks, and Jean rolls his eyes.

He hates idle chit-chat unless he can show off his superiority. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of losers talking about their hometowns; this makes little sense to Jean, since everyone seems to have come here to get somewhere better. (Except Eren Jeager, whose logic Jean fails to understand, and whom Jean dislikes severely.) 

He knows it’s only a matter of time until his secret hobby is found out, though. It’s nearly impossible to keep a secret when you’re in intense training for years with the same group of people, especially after the weak have been weeded out. 

“Jean?”

Jean immediately sits up straight, his eyes wide as he slams his sketchbook shut and shoves it behind him.

“What?” he barks defensively, shooting a glare up at the interloper.

There stands Marco Bodt with a friendly—albeit now hesitant—expression, arms crossed over his chest where he’s stopped in his tracks. 

“Oh,” Marco says, his eyes widening as his smile disappears and he rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, “sorry, did I interrupt you?”

“What are you doing out here?” Jean asks suspiciously. 

“Um,” Marco replies, tilting his head to the side as he puts his hands up, as if demonstrating he doesn’t have a weapon, “just taking a walk.”

“In the woods?”

“Well,” Marco corrects, dropping his hands as he offers a timid little smile, “technically, we’re near the woods. Not in them.”

Jean just stares at him, and then to his chagrin, Marco just makes himself at home and sits down. He points at the sky where it’s turned orange and smiles.

“I just wanted to see that,” he says simply, as if confiding. “There’s only going to be a few more days like these before it’s really cold.”

Jean’s momentarily distracted by the remark about cold, and he makes a face.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be fun,” he quips wryly.

Marco laughs a little. “Yeah, right? Trying to use ODM gear when you can’t feel your fingers?”

Jean laughs, too, and hazards a look over at Marco. He’s wearing a tunic-length shirt that’s made of burlap—probably from a potato sack, if Jean’s not mistaken—and he’s got freckles all over his cheeks.

“So,” Marco starts, interrupting the quiet, “you like to draw?”

Jean nearly chokes as he jumps up, forgetting his sketchbook is sitting on the ground as he takes two steps back, scowling.

“No way. I’m just... going over the notes I made about the ODM gear bays.” He crosses his arms haughtily, tilting his hips as he raises his nose at Marco from where he’s standing. “If I’m going to be the best, I have to know what I’m talking about. They said I’m pretty good at it.”

However, instead of looking impressed or intimidated, Marco just gives him a little smile and shrug, before picking up the abandoned sketchbook and pencil. 

“Don’t—” Jean blurts out in the mortification.

To his surprise, though, Marco doesn’t open it or tease him. He just offers them both to Jean with an outstretched hand.

“Here,” he says simply. 

Jean quickly snatches them out of Marco’s hand, trying not to blush in embarrassment. 

“Um,” he starts awkwardly, “I like to draw. It’s kind of dumb, but I like doing it.”

Marco smiles at him and nods, leaning back on his elbows and letting his long, lean body stretch out. He’s tall, and Jean wonders momentarily if he’s going to be outdo everyone in ODM gear training; then again, being tall doesn’t mean you have the grace to go with it. 

Jean frowns a little at himself, putting it out of his mind. He has plenty of time—the next two years, to be exact—to size up the competition.

“It’s not dumb,” Marco contradicts, interrupting Jean’s thoughts. “I like drawing, too. I’m just really bad at it.”

This piques Jean’s interest, and after a moment of deliberating, slowly retakes his seat next to Marco.

“How bad?” he asks curiously after a few beats of silence. It’s been a while since he engaged someone else in a conversation for any reason other than bragging.

Marco starts to laugh as he turns his head to look at Jean. His face is highlighted in the fast-darkening russet light, and Jean can’t help but notice the tiny little scar he has next to his bottom lip, just off to the right side. 

“Bad,” Marco reaffirms, nodding. “If you don’t mind me asking... what were you drawing?”

Jean sighs heavily; he supposes there’s no harm in sharing his secret hobby with Marco. He doesn’t seem like the type who’d tell or mock Jean for it.

“Dandelions,” he says, cringing as he flips open the sketchbook. 

He hesitates before handing it over, but Marco looks so genuinely interested that Jean gives up the unfinished drawing without a fight.

Marco accepts it gingerly, as if he knows Jean doesn’t want to hand it over, and studies it closely.

“Wow,” he says after a few moments with wide eyes, “that’s really good. I mean, these really look like dandelions.”

“They’re more complicated than they look,” Jean replies, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not like I’m going to have much time to keep doing this, anyway, once training gets more intense.”

Marco nods solemnly in understanding, but then he quirks an eyebrow playfully. “Do you want to color it?”

Jean laughs and rolls his eyes. “Why? Do you have a paint palette and brushes stuffed under your mattress?”

“Sort of,” Marco replies, and Jean frowns in confusion, tilting his head to the side. He watches as Marco leans forward to pluck a dandelion up and pinch the bud between his fingers.

He motions at the sketchbook. “Can I color it?”

“Uh, sure,” Jean says, a skeptical look on his face. “But I think you’re going to just smear the pencil.”

Marco smiles at him, and then carefully grinds the dandelion carefully against the paper. 

To Jean’s surprise, it doesn’t just smear the graphite around; instead, the yellow hue stays. 

Marco hands the sketchbook back to Jean, who brings it close to his face to study the now-yellow dandelion drawing.

“Here,” Marco adds, picking another dandelion, “before the light is gone.”

Jean turns to look at him, shutting the notepad, as Marco leans over to hold a dandelion under Jean’s chin.

“What are you _doing_?” Jean asks in mortification, feeling the warmth of Marco’s fingers. 

Marco just grins and draws away. “When you hold a dandelion under someone’s chin, if it glows, they’re going to be successful. They say in money, but I think it can mean anything.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, nimbly plucking the dandelion out of Marco’s hand.

He twists it between his fingers, twirling the bud; it looks like a perfect yellow sun. 

“Well,” Jean finally grunts diffidently, “did it glow?”

Marco stands up suddenly, brushing the grass off his pants, and offers his hand to Jean.

“Sure did,” he replies with a friendly smile as he helps Jean up.

Jean stands there for a moment, and then darts his hand out to awkwardly hold the same dandelion under Marco’s chin.

Marco laughs and shakes his head. “It’s too dark now.”

Jean shrugs and tosses the dandelion onto the ground. “Well, whatever,” he says brusquely. “Um, you seem like you’re pretty good at ODM gear.”

“It’s more important to be good at ODM gear than have a dandelion glow under your chin,” Marco replies, his dark eyes serious as he meets Jean’s gaze.

Jean just looks at him, until Marco cracks a smile. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get back. I’m exhausted.”

Jean tucks the sketchbook under his arm as they descend the small hill together and head back toward the bunks, sneaking a look back at the sea of dandelions.

= = =

_“Did you know you can dry flowers?”_

_Jean looks over at Marco in surprise._

_They’re lying in the biggest, brightest field that Jean’s ever seen. The grass is waving around them, and they’re hidden in the vast prairie, the sun shining down from a cloudless sky._

_“Why would you want to dry flowers?” Jean asks, frowning slightly._

_Marco laughs, turning onto his side to lean on his elbow and look at Jean. His freckles are highlighted in the sun, and his skin seems like it’s glowing._

_“You can use them for all kinds of different things,” he explains, twirling a wildflower idly between his fingers. “Even after they’re dry, they smell good. My mother always has them on the table.”_

_Jean ponders that for a moment, hands still behind his head as he looks up at the sky. There’s a short silence as the wind blows gently, and there isn’t a single other sound than the rustle of the grass and Marco’s steady breathing._

_There aren’t any flowers in Trost for the most part. Occasionally, though, when someone from the Interior came to run an errand, there’d be a flower in a boutonniere._

_“What’s your favorite?” Jean asks suddenly._

_But Marco doesn’t answer; he’s fallen asleep with a soft little smile on his face._

_For some reason, it doesn’t bother Jean that he doesn’t get an answer. It’s too peaceful, and so he closes his eyes to fall asleep, too._

= = =

It’s frigidly cold, and Jean is sitting on the small hill he’s kept coming to when he has free time, trying not to shiver. The boots help some and he’s sitting on his rain cloak, but his hands are practically shaking as he drags the pencil across the paper.

He doesn’t know why he’s continued to go there, but it’s happened at least once every few weeks since the start of training. There’s something about seeing how small camp looks from the hill, watching the sun sinking behind the distant mountains every night, that gives him a sense of renewed determination. It might be because he remember what it’s like to see everything from above—how to see the bigger picture. 

Tonight, he’s sketching pine trees, since that’s the only plant currently alive amidst the light snowfall that’s blanketed the training ground and forest.

“Hey!” comes a cheerful voice.

“Don’t slip,” Jean immediately says, pointing at the ground.

There are a few incriminating footprints in the snow that then turn into messy, sliding tracks, and Marco raises an eyebrow.

“It’s weird being on foot in the forest, huh?” he remarks wryly.

Jean just grunts with a mild frown; to add insult to injury, Marco grins as he walks over without any trouble and plops down next to Jean.

“I brought something,” he says mysteriously, looking over at Jean as he pulls his jacket more tightly around himself.

Jean realizes that Marco’s carrying some kind of container, and his eyes widen curiously as the top is unscrewed.

“You got the hot tea?” he asks in surprise with raised eyebrows.

Whoever comes in first on the obstacle course is rewarded with an added perk at dinner: coffee or tea. Which, in the dead of winter in the foothills, is a rather enviable prize to win.

“I was extra fast today,” Marco says, his eyes earnest and not a hint of pride in his voice. “But it’s not tea—it’s just hot water.”

Jean makes a dismissive _tch_ sound and goes back to what he’s been drawing. “Don’t tell me you drink just hot water in Jinae.”

“Well, some people do,” Marco says thoughtfully.

“Figures.”

“What do they drink in Trost?” Marco asks innocently, nudging Jean’s boot with his own. “Liquid gold?” 

That gets a bark of laughter out of Jean, and he pokes Marco back with the eraser-end of his pencil. “Only on special occasions.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as Marco’s eyes fall on the distant trees that Jean’s sketching, and he squints.

“You can see that far? It’s dark now.”

“I got enough of a look when it was still light out,” Jean says with a shrug, continuing to sketch. 

“Can I see?”

“Can I have a sip of that hot water?”

Marco grins at him. “I thought you didn’t like hot water.”

“I like hot things when it’s cold enough to freeze my nose off,” Jean retorts flatly. Marco just grins more widely.

“It’s not hot water. It’s a special kind of tea that I made.”

“You _made_ tea?” Jean asks in disbelief, turning to look at Marco fully now.

“Sure,” Marco shrugs indifferently, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not hard. It’s lavender tea.”

Jean makes a meditative, albeit curious sound. “You can’t drink flowers,” he says confidently, shaking his head. “That sounds horrible.” 

“You haven’t even tried it,” Marco says, waving the small canister he’s holding.

Jean looks at the container, at Marco’s expression, and then back at the container. “It’s hot?” he finally asks. He can’t resist; it’s just too cold to turn down the opportunity to drink a hot beverage.

“But I get to see your drawing.”

Jean groans and rolls his eyes; Marco is the most stubborn person he’s ever met. Well, the most stubborn person who hasn’t got a screw loose, that is.

“Fine,” he says, offering Marco the sketchbook at the same time he holds out his empty hand.

Marco gives a delighted look, as if he wasn’t expecting to actually win the opportunity to see Jean’s latest masterpiece, and he happily hands it over.

“Save some for me, though,” he warns cheerfully, and he’s completely distracted as he looks down at Jean’s drawing.

“This is great, Jean!” he exclaims, holding up the drawing against the hills. He looks over with a big grin, but Jean is too busy sniffing the contents of the canister to notice too much.

“Smells like that stuff they sell in the market that’s supposed to keep moths away,” he finally concludes, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Marco.

“Take a sip,” Marco replies simply.

Jean shrugs—it can’t be worse than the stuff they’re fed in training—and takes a hesitant sip.

It’s actually not what he’s expecting; it’s fragrant, and almost soothing in its taste.

Marco is watching expectantly, and Jean finally meets his eyes. “Okay,” he says grudgingly after a few moments, taking another sip, “it’s... good.”

Marco lets out a delighted laugh, and nods. “I knew you’d like it.”

“But where’d you get flowers?”

“I found a grove of wild lavender a few months ago,” Marco says, his eyes wide, as if fascinated by the unexpected discovery. “It was by accident one day during training, so I picked a few. You can dry them and use them for all kinds of things.”

“Are you sure this isn’t... rotten?” Jean says skeptically, even as he takes another sip. “Like... rotting vegetables or something?”

“I promise,” Marco says, patting Jean on the shoulder as if he’s comforting a small child. “People use them for all kinds of things back in Jinae.”

He gives Jean a small, almost conspiratorial grin. “Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket, “take a piece. Try drawing it.”

As Marco holds out the sprig of lavender, Jean sees him eyeing the tea container. Much to Jean’s dismay, he realizes that he’s already finished half of it. He closes his eyes to inhale the slight curl of fragrant steam that escapes as he takes one last sip, before handing it regretfully back to Marco, accepting the stem of dried purple flowers.

“I don’t know if I could draw this,” he says hesitantly, holding the sprig of lavender gingerly in his hand. He brings it up to his nose, smelling it curiously; it’s got a nice scent to it, and he immediately feels more relaxed.

“Smells nice?” Marco asks, taking a sip of the tea. He smiles a little, content and happy, as he watches Jean.

“Yeah,” Jean replies absentmindedly, taking his sketchbook back from Marco. “Um,” he says, idly pushing his boot through the snow, “if you hold it in your hand, I can try to sketch it.” He feels his cheeks starting to heat.

Marco looks thrilled, though, and nods enthusiastically.

“I wish I had a talent,” he says wistfully as takes the lavender back and positions in the palm of his hand. “I could send my sister drawings of camp and things. She’s always asks what I’m doing in her letters.”

Jean snorts dismissively and shakes his head. “Why would you want to tell her what you’re doing here?” he asks. “This place is horrible. I can’t wait to get out of here and join the Military Police. Who wants to run five miles a day?”

Marco hums thoughtfully, but then he shrugs. “They miss me,” he says simply.

Jean looks at him in surprise, and then bites his lip slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he replies softly. “I mean, well...” he stammers, dropping his eyes to stare intently at the dried plant in Marco’s callused palm, “if you want, I could give you a sketch of the lavender.” He clears his throat self-consciously, but forces himself to keep talking, “And you could, um, send them that if you want.” He raises his eyes, and finally smiles minutely. “Better than a picture of ODM gear bruises, right?”

Marco’s face lights up. “That’d be great, Jean! I write them a lot, and they’re always asking if I’ve made any friends.”

“Are we friends?” Jean blurts out; then feels like an idiot when he realizes how pathetic he must sound.

“Of course,” Marco says immediately, his face growing serious. “I mean... unless you don’t want to be.” If Jean’s not mistaken, there’s a very sad lilt to Marco’s voice he’s trying to hide.

“No, I do!” Jean exclaims, a little too vehemently, before flushing in embarrassment. “I mean, you know,” he clears his throat, trying to sound casual and shrugging nonchalantly, “sure. That’s fine.”

Marco laughs a little, but it’s a warm sound, and not condescending. “I’m really glad to hear that,” he says, looking down at the lavender in his palm. There’s a few seconds of silence, until he finally continues. “So, were you serious before?” he asks, looking up to meet Jean’s eyes with a hopeful expression. “About drawing it?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, smiling a little, letting his guard down. “It might be terrible, though,” he warns.

Marco raises an eyebrow dismissively and gives Jean a crooked grin.

“You’re a good artist.” It’s a simple statement, and the praise immediately makes Jean grunt and drop his eyes to study the dried flower.

They sit there for a while. The only sound is the scratch of Jean’s pencil as he works quickly. Art is the only thing he lets his intuition out for; everything else has to be carefully planned and thought out, and if he can’t keep up, he has to find a way.

But drawing isn’t anything except him and the page; he doesn’t have to think about anything except what his pencil is doing.

Marco watches him sketch in quiet fascination, barely even breathing as they sit together in the quiet winter wood.

After Jean gets a loose sketch down and looks up at Marco expectantly, waiting for the verdict, he smiles a little when he sees the excited look on Marco’s face.

“That’s a really nice drawing,” he says almost reverently, looking at Jean with wide eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

Jean shakes his head. “I’m not going to do anything with it. It’s for you.”

He doesn’t mean the words to sound so familiar, but for once, he can’t say that he minds. There’s something so simple about Marco—so transparent and good—that Jean stopped feeling uneasy around him a long time ago.

He tears the drawing out of the sketchbook and hands it over to Marco who folds it into four quarters to be mailed with his next letter.

Marco offers his hand to Jean to help him up, and Jean carefully finds his footing on the slippery ground.

“Here,” Marco says, offering the small stem of lavender to Jean, “keep it. Then, if you want, you can make your own tea.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jean replies awkwardly, accepting the flower. Marco’s hands are very warm, his fingers are a little rough from using the ODM blades, but Jean can feel the deft grace there. 

He slips the lavender into his pocket, and then gives Marco a cocky grin. “Perfect. When I come in first after tomorrow’s run, I’ll get the hot water and make it myself.”

Marco smiles at him and nods, but doesn’t move yet, as if waiting for something. Sure enough, just as Jean goes to take a step down the hill, his feet slip right out from under him as he loses his balance.

His eyes screw shut as he waits for the agonizing thud of his back hitting the ground, but then he realizes that he’s suspending in mid-air air.

Marco has literally caught him; and he’s grinning like a maniac.

“Slippery,” is all he says with a playful raise of his eyebrow.

And to the dismay of Jean’s ego, all he can do is grin.

“You’re an ass,” he retorts in turn, not missing a beat.

“Uh huh,” Marco retorts dismissively, helping Jean right himself. “So, are you going to share your tea?”

“Maybe,” Jean grumbles, feigning crankiness at his own lack of balance, now that he’s gotten so used to the ODM gear. “Um, don’t send that drawing to your family.”

Marco’s face immediately falls, and Jean is surprised at the strength of how his heart seems to contract. 

“No,” he says, holding up his hands before Marco takes his statement the wrong way, “I mean, don’t send _that_ drawing, because I can make a better one!”

The expression immediately melts away, and Jean’s heart unexpectedly speeds up when Marco smiles and nods. “Thanks, Jean. That’s really nice of you.”

They look at each for a moment, and Jean suddenly notices how broad Marco’s shoulders have gotten; his lips are quirked slightly, and Jean can’t stop staring.

And for once, he doesn’t notice because of the potential for competition.

Jean hopes his face doesn’t betray his thoughts as he returns the smile, and then points down the hill. “Let’s go back.”

He doesn’t even refuse Marco’s help as they carefully make their way back down the slippery embankment to the bunks.

= = =

_“Jean!” Marco calls, waving his arm in the distance._

_Jean smiles as he runs toward Marco, making quick work of the distance between them as he draws closer._

_“Come on,” Marco says excitedly, motioning for Jean to follow him into a forest glade._

_Jean notices that he’s not wearing his uniform; and then realizes that Marco isn’t the Jean knows. He’s still himself, only with a round face full of freckles, a short crew-cut, and about two feet shorter._

_“Will you help me pick some?” he asks with a sweet smile, tilting his head at Jean. “So we can dry them for winter?”_

_“Sure,” Jean agrees. His voice sounds high, and he realizes he’s nine again. But he was never outside of Trost at this age; rather, he was helping his mother, eating her cooking, watching the city._

_None of that matters, though—the fact that this isn’t real, and that this isn’t how history went—because he just wants to stay with Marco and pick flowers._

_“Which ones?” he asks, bending down to poke a purple flower. “These?”_

_“Yeah,” Marco exclaims. His face is covered in freckles, as if he’s spent the entire summer in the sun. “Those are my favorites.” He laughs a little, his voice bubbly and young, and he gives Jean a warm smile._

_They gather up flowers for what seems like an entire afternoon. Jean loses himself in picking the lavender, talking with Marco about what the trees smell like and how pretty the sky is, until finally, night is drawing close._

_Everything becomes shadowed, and the light filtering through the trees disappears._

_“Jean,” Marco says, turning with a downturned mouth and frightened eyes, “I’m scared.”_

_Jean smiles at him reassuringly and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Don’t be scared. C’mon, let’s sit down and see how much we picked.”_

_They sit down, and the smile returns to Marco’s face as he lies down on the forest floor next to Jean, hugging the flowers to himself._

_“In only a few months,” he says, “they’ll be dried.”_

_Jean nods, and the last thing he remembers is pushing a bunch of them to his face to inhale._

= = =

It’s spring, and the fawn grass on the gently sloped hill is soft underneath Jean’s bare feet. The marks from the ODM straps have ceased to give him blisters, and in their place now are calluses. 

It’s peaceful this afternoon, since Shadis is distracted by an unexpected visit from Garrison officials, here to review the progress of the 104th cadets. It’s common knowledge that the Garrison gets saddled with the middle-of-the-road candidates—the soldiers who aren’t quite Military Police-grade material. (Not including the oddballs crazy enough to join the Survey Corp. voluntarily, of course.)

Jean is grateful for the interruption, though, because he’d finished the round of laps that Shadis had sent them all off to do hours ago and found time to steal away to his favorite spot.

However, his open sketchpad is blank, and the pencil is clasped idly in his fingers. 

He’s unsure of what to draw; he’s sketched the dandelions, the grass, the distant trees, and even the dried lavender that Marco had given him the previous winter. He’d even given over a few different versions of the lavender sketches for Marco to send off to his family.

Closing the sketchbook and reconciling himself to art block defeat for the day, Jean lies back on the soft grass with his hands behind his head, closing his eyes.

He’s already half-asleep when he hears footsteps, and he doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Feeling uninspired?” asks a familiar voice, dropping to sit down next to him.

Jean laughs weakly, opening his eyes to look at Marco. “I’ve already drawn everything single type of plant there is,” he groans, throwing his forearm over his face dramatically. “And I can’t draw people.”

Marco looks down at him, smiling with a slight tilt of his head.

“Have you ever drawn a pitcher plant?”

“A _what_?”

“A pitcher plant. They grow near my house back in Jinae,” Marco explains, breaking eye contact with Jean to lean back on his hands and look up into the sky. “They’re actually carnivorous.”

“That really exists?” Jean asks skeptically, snorting. “Do they eat human flesh?”

Marco laughs and pokes Jean playfully in the shoulder. “They’re not Titans. They just catch bugs.”

“Good thing,” Jean quips; then tries to sound casual. “Uh, so what do they look like?”

“They’re sort of... pink, and they look like pitchers...” Marco makes a face as he tries to describe them. 

Jean just listens, trying to visualize any version he can conjure.

“I have an idea,” Marco exclaims suddenly, sitting up straight. “Let me describe what they look like, and you can draw them.”

Jean gives a thoughtful hum, not outright dismissing the idea (he tends to be a little more thoughtful where Marco’s concerned these days), and finally nods. “Okay, I’ll try it. It’s not like I have anything better to do.” He sits up to grab the sketchpad again, opening it with his pencil poised.

This time, Marco takes the opportunity to lie on his back. “Okay,” he says sleepily, yawning a little, “first, draw a circle.”

Jean laughs a little as he obliges; the gorgeous spring weather is making even Marco sleepy.

He draws the circle, and then waits.

“And now,” Marco continues, “draw... um, a stem to the circle.”

Jean rolls his eyes and shoots Marco an exasperated look. “Just show me,” he demands, “and then I’ll draw my own version.”

Marco shrugs and sits up, moving close. Jean’s breath catches as Marco puts his hand over Jean’s, and then haphazardly scratches out the basic shape of a pitcher plant.

“See?” he asks once he releases Jean’s hand. “It’s sort of like that.”

Jean turns his head sideways to look at the drawing, but he slowly nods. “Okay,” he confirms, “I get the idea.”

“You draw, and I’ll field questions,” Marco grins.

“You just want to take a nap,” Jean accuses, a teasing note in his voice.

“I do not,” Marco protests. “I’ll just watch you draw.”

Normally, Jean would refuse, but Marco always seems so genuinely intrigued that he can’t bring himself to say no.

He’s concentrating so hard on the drawing, though, and the knowledge that Marco is watching, that he’s surprised when he feels a heavy weight slowly descend against his shoulder. 

Jean turns his face in surprise, only to feel the tickle of Marco’s hair against his cheek and hear a soft snore.

At first, Jean stiffens and considers waking him up; but the sound of Marco’s breathing—deep, even, reassuring—makes Jean stop.

Instead, blushing fiercely, he gingerly puts the sketchpad to the side and maneuvers Marco to lie down with his head against Jean’s thigh. 

He murmurs a little, but doesn’t wake up, immediately curling up against Jean and sighing.

Jean tries not to think too hard, and picks the sketchbook back up to attempt his own variation of a real pitcher plant.

When Marco wakes up again, it’s almost dark, and his entire body stiffens when he realizes where he’s lying. Jean doesn’t comment aloud; instead, he just waits, and then feels a surge of some emotion he can’t name when Marco doesn’t jerk away.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” he says awkwardly, his voice very quiet and unlike the normal calm tone. 

“That’s okay,” Jean replies simply, not saying anything else for a moment. He feels brave, though, when Marco doesn’t move, and hovers the sketchpad in front of Marco’s face. “What do you think?”

Marco takes the pad, and with a hesitant look at Jean out of the corner of his eye, turns over to lie on his back so his head is still against Jean’s leg, but now they can look each other straight in the face.

“I like it,” he says, staring up at Jean with wide, dark eyes. “I like it a lot.”

“You do?” Jean stammers, immediately breaking eye contact as his face heats.

“Yeah,” Marco repeats, looking a little more confident at Jean’s reaction, “it looks exactly how it should.”

It’s Marco who takes Jean’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and Jean doesn’t pull away.

“This was a nice day,” Marco says, smiling a little as their eyes meet, hands clasped.

Jean smiles in return and nods. “Teach me to draw another one next time,” he says quietly. “Even if I’ve never seen it before.”

Marco nods, then offers up a clever little grin. “You won’t know whether I’m just making them up or not, though.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes. “That’s more exciting than drawing dandelions for the rest of my life.”

Marco’s face softens, and he looks a little wistful suddenly. “Well,” he says carefully, “it’s only a year until we find out what the ‘rest of our lives’ are, right? So, I’ll come up with some good ones before then.”

Jean doesn’t want to think about that right now, so he just nods and hums in acknowledgement.

= = =

_“Hi, Jean,” Marco says where he’s leaning over a small campfire with a pot suspended over it. He looks over his shoulder and gives a tired little smile, motioning for Jean to come closer. “Do you want to make the tea?”_

_Jean blinks, reaching for his ODM blades since he doesn’t know where they are right now. When he feels the blades safely tucked into their sheaths, and he relaxes somewhat._

_“Where are we?” he asks hesitantly, looking around them. They’re surrounded by large, old trees._

_“Just outside the Wall,” Marco replies simply with a shrug._

_“What?” Jean hisses, looking all around them, hand tightening on the blade. “We need to get into the trees!”_

_Marco just looks at him in confusion, tilting his head to the side. It’s then that Jean realizes that Marco has his eyes shut. He can’t see that rich brown—so limitless and dark, yet comforting—and Jean shivers._

_“Open your eyes,” Jean demands, his bottom lip trembling for reasons he doesn’t understand._

_“I can’t,” Marco says simply, and then holds out his hand. “Will you make the tea? I can’t see.”_

_Jean just stands there, staring, and then something squishes under his boot._

_There on the forest floor are a collection of pink spotted plants with big, open maws that look like yawning mouths._

_“They’re carnivorous,” Marco says simply._

_Jean makes a distressed sound and jumps away toward the fire and Marco, but Marco starts to laugh._

_He reaches his hand out and touches Jean’s face to feel his expression, still smiling._

_“I’m sorry,” he says, “I meant they eat insects.”_

_“How?” Jean asks, still horrified. If this was reality, he’d be laughing, too. But there’s something about the way the plants look like they’re screaming that terrifies him._

_“They wait,” Marco says simply. “They wait for something to fly into their mouths, and then digest it.”_

_“Can you please open your eyes?” Jean whispers, pleading._

_“No,” Marco replies softly, the smile gone sad now, “I don’t want to see death.”_

_Jean wraps his arms around Marco and holds him close, closing his eyes, too._

_“Neither do I,” he murmurs, pushing his nose against Marco’s neck. He smells different; not like lye soap or sweat, but like lavender, the trees, otherworldly._

_“Where’s the lavender for the tea?” he asks, trying to speak properly. “Is that what you asked for?”_

_Marco nods, and his grip on Jean tightens before they part._

_They sit down together, and Jean pours the hot water into a small tin cup nearby; it looks like their standard camping equipment, but here, in this strange world, it’s only an echo of reality._

_“Here,” he says, pressing the cup into Marco’s hands, “you don’t have to open your eyes. Just drink it.”_

_Marco nods and shudders a little, but he takes a sip._

_They sit like that in silence for a long time, and the light doesn’t change. There’s still sunlight filtering through the treetops even hours later, and neither one of them look at the pitcher plants._

_“I thought you said those grew near your house,” Jean finally says softly._

_“They did,” Marco replies, nodding. “And I need to pick some.”_

_“Why?” Jean asks, turning to look at Marco’s closed eyes._

_“I just need to,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to add it to my lavender.”_

_“But you can’t use pitcher plants for tea,” Jean says, shaking his head in confusion._

_Marco turns his face back toward the fire and takes another sip of his tea._

_“Are you sure?” he asks, and his voice is almost playful now. “You don’t know what they look like.”_

_“I drew it,” Jean says, shaking his head. “I know what they look like. You showed me!”_

_“Will you pick them for me?” Marco asks in a halting, soft voice. He sounds like he’s scared again._

_Jean sighs, and turns his head slightly to look at the pitcher plants in his peripheral vision._

_They’re terrifying, like the mouth of a Titan._

_“Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing himself to stand up, gripping his ODM blades to make himself feel less scared._

_He picks a few of the plants, and they don’t even change shape; they’re still roaring, waiting for an insect to get caught._

_“Okay,” he says, trying not to shudder. “I got them.”_

_“Here,” Marco says, pointing to a pile of lavender next to the fire, “put them there.”_

_Jean nods, and steps around Marco to gingerly lay them down with the lavender._

_“Only some of the lavender is dried,” Marco says, turning his face to the side as Jean sits back down. “Just a little longer now.”_

_“Here,” Marco says, holding out the cup, “have some. I know you like lavender tea.” He smiles a little, his expression bittersweet, adding, “Whether you’ll admit it or not.”_

_Jean smiles a little, too, and takes the cup._

_He falls asleep against Marco’s shoulder, the smell and taste of lavender petals in his mouth._

= = =

Marco is sitting quietly, looking out over the distant mountains, as Jean makes his way up the hill.

“You stole my spot,” Jean says, pointing at him. 

That earns a little smile out of Marco, but he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Jean doesn’t say anything else as he comes to sit down next to Marco on the grass. He doesn’t have his sketchbook this time; there’s just hasn’t been time to draw lately with graduation approaching. 

“Well,” Marco says after a moment, breaking the silence as he fiddles idly with the grass, “we find out everyone’s results tomorrow.”

Jean grins and nods, stretching his arms above his head luxuriantly and shifting so that the ODM gear isn’t digging into his thighs.

“Finally,” he says with a great sigh of exasperation. “No more swinging through trees in the rain.” Then, he snorts, making a face, “No more listening to Jaeger _ramble_ about dumb things.”

“Yeah,” Marco says softly, still looking at the ground.

“What?” Jean asks outright.

“‘What’ what?” Marco retorts without missing a beat.

“What’s going on?” Jean asks suspiciously, eyeing Marco’s expression closely. “Why are you all... mopey?”

That gets Marco to look up, and then he laughs a little. “I’m not,” he says simply. “I’m...” He trails off, looking hesitant.

“Just say it,” Jean says, frowning at him.

“I’m not sure where I’m going to be after today,” he answers flatly with a minute shrug. “Or what I’m going to be writing back to my family. I just hope... I don’t disappoint them.”

“ _What?_ Jean exclaims, his eyes wide and his pupils dilating. He flicks Marco in the shoulder and shakes his head. “Don’t be stupid, Marco.”

Marco just shrugs, looking a little dejected, but also resigned to some fact Jean isn’t understanding.

“You think you’re going to end up in the Garrison?” he scoffs, not even meaning it as a real suggestion.

But the way Marco stiffens, his face flushing, Jean realizes that’s what’s bothering him.

“I mean,” he says awkwardly, “the Garrison isn’t that bad. But you’re not going to end up there, anyway. That’s for second-string weaklings.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud to serve the king any way I can,” Marco says softly, drawing his knees up to rest his chin there, looking very young. “I just don’t want to disappoint my family.”

Jean sighs, knowing there’s no way to assuage Marco’s anxiousness until the top ten are announced, so instead, he nudges Marco’s shoulder with his own.

“Well,” he says, “since you _are_ getting into the Military Police, I heard a rumor the other day.”

That gets Marco’s attention, and he straightens to look over Jean. “A rumor?”

“Yeah, nothing bad,” Jean replies quickly. “I just heard Armin talking, and he was saying that there are flowers outside the Wall. All different colors, and that there are butterflies everywhere.” He smiles a little when Marco’s eyes widen and looks immediately intrigued.

“But that’s outside the Wall,” he says, frowning.

Jean grins. “Yeah, but apparently, the same things grow on the Interior in big fields. I’ve heard of butterflies and flowers before, and that must be what Armin’s talking about. So, that means there are flowers that not even you have seen!” 

Despite the fact that he’s trying to cheer up Marco, Jean finds himself excited, too.

“Wow,” Marco breathes. “I’d never have to describe another flower for you to draw again. And forget about dandelions.”

That makes Jean laugh, and he gives Marco a shy, bashful smile. “I don’t mind,” he says simply with a shrug, and then looks away, a blush staining his cheeks.

“Anyway,” he continues gruffly, “when you see those flowers on the Interior, you can send that back to your family. I bet you can dry them, and then they’ll last forever, right?”

“Right.” Marco gives a determined nod. “No matter what happens,” he says firmly, as if trying to convince himself, “I did my best.” 

Knowing there’s nothing else he can say, Jean just nods and looks down the hill at camp. There’s a bustle of activity as everyone gets ready for their last day in the 104th training camp—washing uniforms, getting last minute packing done.

“Jean?” Marco says softly, his eyes also on the bunks where a few of their fellow cadets are milling about in between tasks.

Jean hums in response, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“I’m going to miss this place a little,” he says, staring very pointedly down into his lap, his hands folded tensely.

Jean barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Marco,” he rebukes, “you’re too sentimental.”

Something very potent shifts in the mood between them, and Jean almost flinches at the sheer sharpness of it. Marco stands up abruptly, and Jean is shocked to see he looks upset.

“Yeah,” Marco agrees simply, giving a jerky nod. “I guess you’re right.”

He takes a few steps away, but Jean jumps up, reaching out as he lets out a sound of distress.

“Wait!” he says desperately, not sure about what just happened.

Marco turns to look at him with a hurt expression, and then he looks away again. He’s trying to hide his emotions—which is very un-Marco-like—and Jean doesn’t know what to do.

“I just thought...” Marco starts, and then clamps his mouth shut.

Suddenly, Jean understands; he also realizes he learned more in the last two years than just ODM mechanics.

“I meant training,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m not going to miss training. I didn’t mean...” He swallows hard, feeling embarrassed.

Marco looks surprised by this revelation, and he just stands a few feet away, staring at Jean.

Jean looks at him—looks at his dark hair, his eyes, the way the shirt he’s wearing stretches more tightly across his chest now, his broad shoulders, and those freckles that never go away—and he doesn’t think.

He closes the distance between them in a few steps and grabs Marco’s hand to stop him from walking away any further.

“I’m going to miss it, too,” he blurts out. “I mean, sitting here...” he coughs and averts his eyes, but says it anyway, “with you.”

“Oh,” Marco says shyly. But then to Jean’s surprise, Marco takes his hand and links their fingers together. “I’m going to miss your drawings.” And with that, he brings Jean’s hand up to his lips and kisses his wrist.

Jean is turning scarlet, but he doesn’t pull away; just closes his eyes and lets Marco kiss his hand.

It goes on for a long time, until he’s completely pressed against Marco, and fingers are replaced with lips, and they’re kissing.

When they pull apart, Jean is panting, and Marco isn’t much better off.

“Listen,” Jean says softly, tilting his up slightly to look at Marco who’s blushing, “there’s nothing to miss, right? We’ll be in the Military Police together. There’s no way you’re not in the top ten.”

Marco nods, and a little hope starts to creep into his expression. “I guess I’m just nervous,” he says with a sheepish little smile.

Jean rests his hands against Marco’s hips, inhaling deeply, smelling nothing except the grass and Marco.

“I’ll draw some flowers for your family when we get to the Interior, so you can show them.”

Marco smiles, and pulls Jean close.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Thanks, Jean. I’m really glad we became friends.”

“Me too,” Jean whispers back. 

= = =

_“It’s my sister who taught me to make lavender tea,” Marco says, “but we always ran out. This time, though, I think I have enough.”_

_There’s a large pile of lavender, pitcher plants, and even flowers Jean’s never seen—different colors and types of buds—and it looks like a beautiful blanket where Marco’s spread it out on the forest floor._

_“Come smell them,” he says, giving Jean a smile. This time, he has his eyes open, and they’re the warm brown color Jean knows so well._

_He’s not wearing his uniform, but his body still looks so familiar—broad shoulders and long legs, the way he stretches out in the bed of flowers, smiling a little._

_“They’re nice,” Jean says awkwardly, but he doesn’t go any closer. “I can smell them from here.”_

_Marco gives him a look, and tilts his head to the side curiously. “Don’t you want to see them close up?”_

_“No!” Jean exclaims, stumbling backwards, tears burning in his eyes._

_Marco reaches out his hand, his expression wounded. “Don’t you want to draw them?” he asks softly._

_“I hate drawing flowers,” Jean shouts, shaking his head and dropping to the floor. There’s soft moss under his knees, and he feels tears on his cheeks. “Don’t make me.”_

_“Jean,” Marco’s voice calls. “Don’t leave me here alone.”_

_Jean can’t pick himself up yet, and he curls in the moss, crying himself to sleep._

= = =

Jean wakes up, looks through a window.

He thinks:

The sky is blue today.

Last night it was orange. 

There's smoke.

People are talking outside: bodies, disposal methods, no names.

The air smells like death.

Jean shuts his eyes and goes back to sleep.

= = =

_“Hi, Jean,” Marco says from his bed of flowers. “You’re back.”_

_Jean picks himself up from the moss, trying to control his breathing. “Hi, Marco,” he replies, trying not to let his throat tighten._

_“All the flowers are finally dry,” Marco says._

_Finally, Jean goes to him, lies down next to him in the bed of lavender; it smells like a memory, like a dream._

_“Will you hold my hand... until I fall asleep?” Marco whispers._

_Jean nods, not trusting himself to speak, and he clasps Marco’s hand, twining their fingers._

_Marco shuts his eyes, and Jean reaches across to make sure the flowers are near his face; they’re still fragrant, even when they’re dry._

_“We won’t see each other for a while,” Marco says softly, squeezing Jean’s hand, “but when you wake up here again, I’ll be waiting for you.”_

_Jean nods and presses up against Marco’s side, arm around his waist, hand resting against the lavender._

_Marco murmurs Jean’s name and sighs, and Jean falls asleep._

= = =

From where they’re standing in the giant trees, Titan congregating at the bottom with hungry eyes and open mouths, Jean can see butterflies just outside the forest’s edge.

He commits the shapes of butterflies and bright flowers to memory.

Marco will like them.


End file.
